


[in this life] We Keep Moving

by ebjameston



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Avengers AU, Gen, I am not entirely sure how this happened, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-03 14:03:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10968750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebjameston/pseuds/ebjameston
Summary: "You brought the Avengers together under one roof, Bittle," Johnson says. "You want to perpetuate the family-of-choice trope so beloved in both these fandoms, cool, but get on it. Zimmerman is your teammate. He’s hurting. Fix it.”[Eric Bittle has made a lot of questionable choices in his life. Becoming Iron Man is not one of them, but inviting the rest of The Avengers to move in with him definitely, DEFINITELY is.]





	[in this life] We Keep Moving

[1]

“He’s not adjusting well.”

Bitty startles so hard that the holographic diagram of the EMP arrowhead he’s working on for Shitty spins off to a corner of the workshop. Dum-E sounds an alarmed chirp and goes chasing after it. “What — I — how — B, didn’t I specifically inactivate the Director’s security codes after he, y’know, died?”

“You did indeed, Sir,” BUN responds, cutting into the background Beyoncé. “However, when I updated his vital status to reflect the current state, his security codes also reverted. Shall I make a change?”

“Let it go, Bittle, I’m only here to help with initial exposition and then you won’t see me again for awhile.” John Johnson stalks deeper into the room and comes to loom over Bitty’s workspace, and there are — there are secret things here, okay, things are are _secret_ and proprietary, and it’s not like Bitty has personal space issues but maybe a little bit he does. Johnson ignores Bitty’s frantic attempt to look unruffled and repeats, “He’s not adjusting well.”

“Even if I didn’t have a pre-existing heart condition, it’s still polite to knock," Bitty says, rubbing at the arc reactor's casing ruefully.  "Didn’t your mama teach you any manners? And who’s not adjusting well?” 

Instead of answering with _words_ , like a normal human might, Johnson taps on a nearby screen until a live feed from one of the Tower’s common areas scrolls into focus. It’s the living space off the main communal kitchen, empty save a lone figure standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that give a spectacular view of New York at night, and Bitty would know the tension in those shoulders anywhere.

“The good captain isn’t sleeping, socializing, or taking to modern technology as well as we’d hoped we would,” Johnson says ominously. “He doesn’t even have an Instagram of artsy photography.” 

Bitty has to stifle a laugh. The thought of Jack Zimmerman — Captain America, the Man with a Plan, the complete and utter pain in Bitty's ass — running any sort of social media account, let alone a hipster Insta, is downright absurd. Granted, the guy was in deep freeze for 70+ years of exponential technological advancement, but come _on_ , he reads a physical newspaper in the morning. Bitty didn’t even know they still _printed_ those. “So you’re asking me to what, be his tech tutor? Doesn’t SHIELD have people for that? In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m already up to my elbows in work here.” 

Yes, it’s an excuse to avoid spending more time with Jack (who tends to be extremely scowl-y and monosyllabic unless he’s in combat or in front of the press), but it’s also true. Bittle Industries is still doing the lion’s share of rebuilding from the Battle of New York _and_ helping to pull helicarrier pieces out of the Potomac, his bioengineering department is apparently being run by complete idiots based on their most recent new project pitches, Ransom’s still incommunicado, Holster's still off-world, and _yes_ he has Dex and Dex is taking to being CEO exactly as frighteningly competently as expected, but it’s still Bitty’s company and he’s still head of R &D and if he stops moving for too long he still sometimes can’t tell if he ever made it back through the wormhole and — 

“In case _you_ hadn’t noticed, Bittle, SHIELD barely even exists these days. We’ve got enough of our own shit to deal with. Jesus, defining a timeline for an AU that already has multiple canonical AUs is complicated.”

Bitty squints. “AU — you mean our designation, Earth-199999? Have you been talking to Reid Richards? Multiverse-hopping?” 

Johnson looks at his watch — which, actually, he isn’t wearing one — and shakes his head. “Never mind. The author’s planning on having all of the team relationships pre-established, but this is already taking too long. You brought the Avengers together under one roof, Bittle. You want to perpetuate the family-of-choice trope so beloved in both these fandoms, cool, but get on it. He’s your teammate. He’s hurting. Fix it.”

 

[2]

Assembling the Avengers for anything less than a five-alarm fire or planetary invasion goes one of two ways, depending on who’s requesting the meeting. If Bitty’s the one trying to get everyone in the same place, he’ll call Coulson. Coulson will, for the umpteenth time, explain that he is not the Avengers’ handler anymore. Bitty will wheedle and dodge and obliquely threaten until Coulson agrees to orchestrate and chaperone. Coulson will get someone on his new team to contact anyone active on the Avengers’ roster and set up the time. Bitty will provide an absurd number of pies and preside over the meeting. Coulson will show up and do an admirable job of acting like he isn’t still inexorably fond of his former band of misfits. 

If it’s anyone besides Bitty trying to bring the group together, they usually just send a group text. Bitty seems to find this personally offensive and usually spends the first five minutes lecturing them about encrypted communication. Shitty and Ransom sleep through this diatribe, Jack pretends he still doesn’t understand how “the Google” can predict what question he’s asking, Holster assures Bitty he’ll smite anyone eavesdropping with nefarious intent, and Lardo just watches. 

This is hardly the most dysfunctional team dynamic she’s ever had to work with. She’s not worried.

They’re a small group when they meet Saturday morning at Bitty’s request. Holster’s been off-world since before the HYDRA debacle and Ransom’s still atoning for his sins somewhere classified (although if he thinks she can’t track him to Maracaibo, he’s not as smart as any of them thought). Jack’s the only one in the common area on the 92nd floor of the Tower when she arrives. 

“Agent Duan,” Jack says politely, and isn’t _that_ interesting. They’d been on a first-name basis when they were alternately chasing and being chased by the factions of HYDRA embedded in SHIELD; funny how a massive data dump detailing her work for previous employers and a few months of solitary cover-building in countries she’s not authorized to enter seem to have tipped the scales back to formality. 

“Captain,” she responds. “You look terrible.” Blunt. True. 

 Jack blinks at her a few times. “I appreciate the concern.”

“The terrifying lady spy doesn’t do concern, Cap, you should know that by now,” Bitty says, breezing into the room with his nose inches away from his phone. “She does alarmingly accurate assessment delivered from an unbiased, purely objective standpoint. Good to have you back, by the way,” he adds as an aside to Lardo.

“You’ve been saying that every time you’ve seen me for the last four weeks,” she says, somewhat amused. 

“And it’s true every time.” He beelines for the coffee machine in the kitchenette. Like everything else in the Tower, it’s at least two generations ahead of whatever BI currently has on the open market. It’s lavish and over-the-top and the only thing Lardo’s found stateside that even comes close to recreating her favorite drink from Marrakesh. She makes a mental note to ask BUN if she can have a personal one installed in her apartment, three floors down. 

“What’s this about, Bittle?” Jack asks brusquely. That’s another relationship that’s been backsliding, and Lardo’s actually considering upgrading that situation from a minor annoyance to a going concern. 

 Post-Chitauri, Jack and Bitty had been — not friends, exactly, but at least on the road to becoming friendly. Then the Winter Soldier showed up on the scene and HYDRA came out of every corner, and they’d talked about it: asking Bitty for help. If there was anyone who could have traced the electronic trails HYDRA left all over SHIELD, anyone who could have helped stopped Project Insight, it would have been Bitty. But Jack had been adamant that he didn’t want to drag Bitty into danger, adamant that it wasn’t Bitty’s fight, and Lardo still remembers the look on Jack’s face when they’d gone through the list of Insight targets in the aftermath and Bitty’s name was fourth. 

The fourth most-likely person to destabilize the world as they know it settles himself into a corner of the couch, carefully cradling a mug topped with a precariously leaning spiral of whipped cream to his chest, and responds, “Funny you should be the one to ask that, Cap. But we’re still missing one of the shadow twins, aren’t we? Where’s Shitty?” 

“Present and accounted for,” Shitty announces, dropping out of the ceiling to land exactly on Jack’s lap. He ignores Jack’s squeak of surprise and subsequent protests, wrapping his arms around Jack’s shoulders and head. “Give into the cuddling, Jack. At least I have pants on this time.” 

“What would I have to give you to make sure you have pants on _every_  time from hereon out?” 

Shitty sighs and snuggles closer. “If I believed for even half a second that my nudity or proximity to you makes you in the least bit uncomfortable, I’d stop. If you asked me seriously or used a safeword, I’d stop. You, however, persist in your adorable, begrudging welcome of my strictly platonic advances. Therefore, oh Captain my motherfucking glorious Captain, resign yourself to a long life of aggressive snuggles with yours truly.” 

Jack huffs, but some of the tension leaks out of his shoulders and he rests his chin on Shitty’s head. It’s good to see, and although she’ll never talk about it, Lardo fondly remembers her own conversion to the church of Shitty. Granted, he’d shot her in the thigh and then spent three weeks in Belarusian SHIELD safehouse talking her into being a good guy, but still. Fond memories.  

“Okay, so, let’s just go ahead and get this party started,” Bitty says abruptly, looking decidedly anywhere but at Shitty and Jack. “BUN, on the main monitor, if you please.” 

The giant TV at the center of the room flicks on, and they’re looking at a map of the world marked with colored flags. Lardo tilts her head; the spread looks familiar — 

“How did you get this?” Jack’s voice is pure ice. 

 “Made it, actually,” Bitty says brightly. “You’re not exactly hard to track. Or, rather, your violence-prone friend with the metal arm isn’t hard to track, and you tend to pop up wherever he most recently destroyed a building.” 

Lardo can only see the back of Jack’s head from where she’s standing, but she knows exactly what expression is on his face. He pushes Shitty out of his lap — Shitty squawks indignantly and seeks shelter by rummaging through the fridge for snacks — and stands. 

“This isn’t any of your business, Bittle.” 

“You made it my business when you brought it into my Tower and onto my team,” Bitty retorts. “And by _it,_ I mean your increasingly crappy attitude and unexplained absences and insistence that I run drills with you at 4AM.” 

It’s a fair point, Lardo will grant Bitty that. Jack’s been so hellbent on tracking down the Winter Solider that he’s gone AWOL numerous times, and he’s distracted even when he is around. He and Bitty are supposed to be co-leaders of the Avengers, but recently more and more of that is falling to Bitty, who’s already nearing his own breaking point. 

So, not the the _most_ dysfunctional team dynamic she’s ever dealt with, but things could certainly get a hell of a lot better. 

Jack remains silent for a long minute, and Bitty finally just rolls his eyes. “Glare all you like, mister, it doesn’t make what I’m saying any less true. If you’re not going to stop until you catch this guy, fine. But the reason you have a team in the first place is to help you, so _let us_.” 

Another long moment passes, then Jack’s head jerks in a stiff nod. “I could use another set of eyes. I may…I _may_ be too close to read the patterns.” 

Lardo can see wheels turning in Bitty’s head. She could easily volunteer her own time at this point — she’s mid-op for several long-term recon missions, nothing that won’t keep — but it might be more interesting to see how this plays out if she doesn’t interfere. 

Bitty snaps his fingers. “Shitty.” 

Shitty chokes on a grape upon hearing his name. “Aw, grape, no.” 

“It’s perfect,” Bitty continues, warming up to the idea as he talks through it. “You and Lardo worked closely with Coulson for years before any of us came along, so you know how to run ops. You were in deep cover when SHIELD fell and then managed to get back here without getting yourself killed when all your covers went public, so you clearly know how to fly below the radar. I can get you a quinjet, too, since you literally know how to fly below the radar. Jack’s the quarterback, you call the plays.”

Shitty considers this for a long moment, then shrugs. “Sure, I’m in.” He looks at Jack sideways. “Not sure I feel great about sending you in without backup, though.”  

“About that,” Jack says. 

 

[3]

 Alexei Mashkov is Russian, 6’4”, actually _prefers_ to be called “Tater,” and navigates the EXO-7 Falcon like he was born in the sky. Bitty shouldn’t trust him. 

 But he also smiles wide and unabashed, makes Jack smile small but honest, and has Lardo’s seal of approval. And then he spends an entire week camped out on the floor of Bitty’s workshop befriending his bots, and Bitty figures trying to dislike him is a lost cause. 

 

[4]

“There’s something you should know,” Jack says. 

 Bitty looks up from the briefing Legal sent him on his request to acquire the original patent for Silly Putty (“Yes, Dex, I have _reasons_ , you wouldn’t understand.”). They’re three weeks into what Bitty is definitely not calling the Hunt for Red October in his head, and Jack’s taken to hanging around the workshop between scouting trips. Bitty’s not complaining — Jack’s quiet, doesn’t touch things without asking, and is usually willing to help lift something heavy if U and Butterfingers are occupied — but it’s…weird. 

He’s normally alone in the workshop. Dex stops by with BI business from time to time and Chowder comes up to bully him into going to mandatory meetings, and when Ransom was still here they’d co-lab it on occasion, but this regular human companionship thing is new. And strange. And not altogether unwelcome. 

“What’s on your mind?” He archives the briefing and moves on to responding to comments in one of the phase three satellite project reworks. 

Jack starts doing that breathing thing he does when he’s trying to calm himself down in front of the press — in through the nose, pause, pause, pause, out through the mouth. It’s enough of a warning to make Bitty shut down the display and give Jack more of his attention. “You want some hot cocoa? No, Dum-E, for the love of — do _not_ drink anything he gives you, Cap, nothing even vaguely potable has been in that blender for _months_ — a little help here, BUN?” 

“With all due respect, Sir, you’ve instructed me at multiple points not to interfere with your children’s natural learning curves,” BUN says drily, and Bitty continues blocking Dum-E’s offerings with the sneaking suspicion that this whole scene is being recorded and filed away for future blackmail purposes. 

Lord, if Bitty wasn’t so proud of BUN, he’d be furious. 

“Your _children_?” Jack chokes out. 

Bitty sighs and removes a final, decidedly moldy mug from Dum-E’s claw. The bot makes a dejected sound and trundles slowly back to his charging dock. “Not biologically, obviously, although they’re likely as close as I’ll ever get given that I’m, y’know, me. And I did bring them into the world, although BUN’s done a good amount of the nannying ever since —.” 

“Bless your heart, Sir, remembering a lowly AI’s contributions —.” 

“— _mute_ , you ungrateful little programming glitch,” Bitty grumbles, and blessed silence falls only to be interrupted by Jack’s quiet laughter. 

Bitty whirls on him. “And what, exactly, are you laughing at?” 

Jack straightens up, a flush across his cheeks that Bitty does _not_ find endearing. “Sorry, it’s just — you two remind me of Marty and Thirdy sometimes.” 

Bitty blinks at that. Sebastian “Marty” St. Martin and Randall “Thirdy” Robinson were the alternate leaders of the Falconers, Jack’s WWII unit, when Jack was unavailable. Jack _never_ talks about his past, and certainly never with a smile on his face. 

“That’s, ah, that’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about,” Jack says into the protracted silence while Bitty’s brain tries to come up with an appropriate way to respond. “My old team. There’s something you need to know, something I should have told you a long time ago, when you started helping with this. Can we —?” He looks around at the corners of the ceiling, clearly uncomfortable with the constant surveillance in the Tower. 

“BUN, lock it down and clear archives for the next fifteen minutes,” Bitty says automatically, then ushers Jack over to one of the beat-up couches Bitty sometimes catches cat naps on. The workshop door locks audibly, which Bitty knows BUN is only doing for Jack’s benefit, and Butterfingers and U roll back to their own docks. 

They sit in silence for a few moments, Bitty watching Jack and Jack watching code compile on a nearby screen, until Bitty decides to man up and break the tension. 

“I wasn’t joking about that hot cocoa, you know —.” 

“I know who the Winter Soldier is,” Jack blurts, then immediately launches himself off the couch and starts pacing tiny, intense circles. “I know who he is. I’ve know since before SHIELD fell. Lardo knows too, and Tater, and we should have told you — I, _I_ should have told you — but you were doing so much to be helpful and I didn’t know how to feel about it — I still don’t —it — it’s Kenny,” he finishes, all the breath leaving him in a rush. “Kent Parson. Kent Parson is the Winter Solider.” 

 

[5]

It’s been four months, and in Shitty’s opinion, nothing they’re doing is having much of an impact. No matter how many quiet, unauthorized recon missions Jack and Tater go on together, no matter how much sense Lardo manages to make out of the thousands of files she dumped onto the Internet when SHIELD fell, no matter what percentage of BI servers Bitty reroutes to passively search internet traffic — they’re coming up empty at every turn.

 “It’s not for nothing,” Shitty protests, pressing up into a handstand so that his legs won’t be in the way of the fridge door when Jack inevitably starts constructing his typical post-mission sandwich. He balances on top of the fridge easily, toes just brushing the ceiling, reveling for a few seconds in the headrush that comes with a quick inversion.  

“Third HYDRA base _this month_ that we’ve gotten to too late and found blown to pieces,” Jack grumbles. “No trail to follow.”

“No one tries that hard not to leave a trail unless they’re making sure someone can’t follow them,” Shitty says. At Jack’s furious glare, he quickly amends, “Okay, wait, hold up, let me try that again without all the double negatives. BUN, wanna give me some visuals?” 

“Certainly, Agent Knight.” BUN lights up a nearby holoscreen, and Shitty tuck-and-rolls out of his handstand and off the fridge to grab it. Jack is still assembling his sandwich, so Shitty projects the photos he’d assembled onto the opposite wall. 

“What am I looking at, Shits?” Jack sighs, without actually glancing up from his food. Shitty knows all about the post-mission blues, okay, he _gets_ it, but still. Dude is being just a wee bit melodramatic. 

“What you are looking at, you infuriating and marvelous man, is a the absolute absence of any sort of trail.” Shitty nudges the album into advancing regularly: Bangkok, Nairobi, Guangzhou, Chennai, Phoenix, Madrid. They’re the wrap-up photos, the ones taken from a distance when leaving a scene. “You’re looking at the aftermath of someone who knows exactly what you’re looking for and how to avoid tripping any of those flags. You wanna know why you can’t find him? _He doesn’t want to be found_.” 

“You’re not exactly making me feel better.” Jack even _chews_ annoyed, it’s incredible. 

“He doesn’t want to be found by _you_ , fuckhead,” Shitty retorts. “Think about it. Who _exactly_ do you think he’s running from? It’s not like any country or world organizations outside HYDRA and SHIELD actually stand a chance of catching the guy, and SHIELD is basically just Coulson’s team of infants at this point and he’s sure as _shit_ not hiding from HYDRA. Who does that leave?” 

Jack carefully puts his sandwich down. “He’s running from…from _me_?” 

Aww, crap, if Shitty makes Captain America cry, Lardo’s going to murder him. He dims the display and wiggles his way into Jack’s lap, wrapping his arms and legs around Jack’s torso. “Only because he’s not ready for you to catch him yet, Cap. Did Lardo ever tell you about how she joined SHIELD? We didn’t even have, like, five percent of the history you and Parson have, and it took _years_.” 

 

[6]

Assembling the Avengers when there _is_ a five-alarm fire goes like this: someone triggers the emergency alert, whichever one of them is on call that day receives the briefing, and the team is activated.  

Jack is proud of his team on days like this. Less than two minutes for every Avenger to acknowledge the call, less than ten minutes before Jack, Tater, and Lardo made it onsite (Bittle and Shitty arrived shortly thereafter), less than thirty minutes of battle before they’re thoroughly wiping the floor with this latest batch of Doombots. Spider-Man, a new recruit of Bittle’s that Jack is fairly certain can’t legally vote yet, is nearby and ready to tag in if needed. 

“Honestly, it’s like they’re not even trying,” Bittle says as he takes out three bots with a well-placed repulsor blast.

“Is complaining?” Tater retorts. He’s covering Bittle’s six, an aerial partnership they’re still getting used to, but Jack likes knowing that they’ve got each others’ backs up there. “Perhaps we are getting home in time for Ellen. No should be complaining.” 

 “No chatter on open lines,” Jack reminds them as he hurls his shield, but it’s a mild reprimand. They’re performing well, finally starting to gel as a team, and the local police force had been able to clear the area of civilians. They might actually get out of this with no casualties.

 He has to step out the line of his shield’s rebound to avoid a pair of incoming bots, grimacing as the disc goes whizzing past out of sight somewhere. Even with the new homing technology that Bittle built into it, tracking it down in the rubble is always irritating. He takes out his displeasure by beheading the bots. 

The battle’s nearly over. He pauses to breathe, already formulating the post-combat plan. Status check with his teammates, send Iron Man and Falcon around to assess the structural integrity of impacted buildings, check in with local law enforcement — 

“JACK, LOOK OUT!!” 

It’s Bittle’s voice over the comms, it’s Lardo’s tense intake of air, it’s the fine hairs on the back of his neck standing up and the realization that he _missed_ something, that the threat isn’t gone yet, and he turns to see the Doombot that somehow got way, way too close and he doesn’t have his shield and it’s already primed to fire — 

The boom is distant, and then the bot’s head explodes sideways. It clatters to the ground, harmless, and Jack can breathe again. 

“Thanks for the assist, Hawkeye,” Jack says. 

“Wasn’t me,” Shitty responds immediately. His voice is tight and serious in a way that Jack rarely hears. “We’ve got unidentified incoming heading directly your way, Cap.”

 Bittle lands next to Jack in a rush and his faceplate flips up; he’s visibly unsettled in a way that he very rarely lets himself get when he’s in the suit. “Jack, oh my gosh, are you okay, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get here any faster!”

“Not your fault,” Jack says. “Shitty, trajectory and ETA?” 

“Inbound from south-southwest,” says a new, breathless voice on the comms. Spider-Man. “Crap, he’s fast — is he supposed to be that fast? Is he _allowed_ to be that fast? What sort of metal is his arm made of?” 

“ _Tango_ ,” Bittle grits, “You are supposed to be _on the sidelines_ unless _explicitly called up_.” 

 Tango? That — that teenage intern who’s been in BI’s genetics department since June is Spider-Man? Wait, did he say — _metal arm_? 

 “I’m not _engaging_ , I’m not an _idiot_ ,” Tango retorts. “You told me to watch, so I’m watching. He’ll be at Lexington and 34th in thirty seconds.” 

 Jack checks their cross-streets. Lexington and 34th.

“Widow, find whoever’s leading the local LEOs and get a five-block perimeter set up,” Jack hears himself command. “Hawkeye, maintain distance. Shoot if you think it needs to be done. Falcon, aerial support over my and Iron Man’s position. Spider-Man, report to Widow immediately and if you come within ten blocks of active combat without direct orders again, I’ll bench you until you graduate.” 

He turns to south-southeast and sets his feet, focusing on breathing. He feels vulnerable without his shield, but the feeling only lasts for a heartbeat before his field of vision goes all red and gold. 

“Move, Bittle,” he snaps. 

“You don’t have to —.” 

“I _do_ ,” Jack forces out through gritted teeth. “I _do_ have to do this.” 

Bittle blinks at him, faceplate still up. “Well, of course you do, honey. I was just going to say that you don’t have to do this alone. You can tell the others to keep their distance if that’s what you want, but I’m not going anywhere, Mr. Zimmerman, and don’t you forget it.” 

“Crossing 33rd,” Shitty cuts in, and then, “Fuck, no, I just lost sight of him, how the _fuck_ —.” 

Jack’s played this moment out in his head a billion times since the helicarriers fell. He’s run through every variation of conversation and confrontation. Sometimes he catches Kenny in the middle of destroying another HYDRA base. Sometimes he manages to predict the next safehouse and intercepts Kenny in transit. Sometimes there's a train and sometimes there's a bridge. Sometimes they fight, sometimes they cry, sometimes it takes multiple tries and sometimes someone gets shot and Jack startles awake, his heart beating too fast and his fingers bleeding around the rim of his shield.  

He should have known better than trying to imagine this, though. There’s only ever been one place he’s been able to accurately predict Kent Parson, and that’s when they’ve gone into battle side-by-side. This isn’t that, this Kent isn’t that Kenny anymore, and Jack’s just put his new team directly in the line of fire of one of the most dangerous assassins in history, what was he _thinking_ — 

A window breaks on the street over. Everyone’s gaze flickers that way for an instant, and when Jack looks back, there’s a figure standing in the middle of the road wearing all black, a gleaming silver arm, and — of all _fucking_ things — a floral snapback. 

“Hey, Zimms,” Kent Parson says over the whine of Bitty’s repulsors priming. “Didja miss me?” 

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where I'm going with this, but it's been stupidly fun so far! I have a million ideas for things I want to do with this AU and will be attempting to marshal them into something approximating logical.


End file.
